Drowned In Absinthe
by UnaMariah1999
Summary: He was afraid to stop drinking...afraid that the nightmares would take over. At least with absinthe he could dull the memory of them. But that didn't make them stop. One-shot, Grantaire's POV.


_A/N: This was the first fanfiction I ever wrote; I recently rescued it from a cobwebby niche of the Internet, dusted it off, and decided to post it here. :)_

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Grantaire never told anyone about his nightmares. He knew they would just tell him to stop drinking. The truth was simple; he was afraid to. During the day he could drown the memories of the ghastly visions in absinthe. He could put himself into a drunken stupor where nothing mattered and nothing scared him. Take that away and…he shuddered at the thought of having to live through those horrible images awake.

But the nightmares continued no matter what he did.

One night, he dozed off at a meeting of the Friends of the A B C. His head sank forward, pillowed on his folded arms, and his eyelids began to slip closed. He felt himself falling into a inky black well of sleep and leapt upright, dashing the sleep from his eyes.

"…comrades?" he asked uncertainly, looking around his unfamiliar surroundings. Barricades towered above him, thrown together of bedsteads, chairs, tables, mattresses...and dead bodies. For a moment, he feared that somehow he had stumbled outside—half-asleep—after the barricades had been constructed…after the fight had been lost. Tilting back his head, he squinted up at the top of barricades. Except he couldn't see the top.

When he looked at them out out of the corner of his eye, he could. But the moment he focused on them, they loomed even higher. The bottle fell from his hand and smashed to the pavement. His lips trembled and he reeled back, clasping his hands over his head. The barricades spun around him and he was terrified they would crash down upon him and crush the life from him.

He began to run.

Panting, gasping in shuddering breaths that stabbed at his lungs like icy spikes of pain. Would the barricades never end? Nothing but endless cobblestones and haphazard walls of debris. Grantaire dragged his sleeve across his eyes, sobs catching in his chest.

"No!" The scream that tore from his throat shocked even him, as he jerked to a stop and stood wavering, staring wide-eyed up at the bridge that spanned the street.

For from the supporting beams of the towering wooden structure, hung from ropes, dangled the corpses of Enjolras, Joly, Jehan, Courfeyac, and the rest of the Friends of the A B C. A wave of nausea rolled over Grantaire and suddenly he thought he was going to throw up. He fell to his knees with a cry, one hand planted on the cobblestones to keep him from falling over.

And then something fell from the sky and splashed onto his sleeve.

"N-no," Grantaire stuttered, scrambling to his feet and scrubbing at the crimson stain. Another drop—there, on the toe of his shoe, dying the worn leather scarlet. He turned his face towards the the sky which was beginning to swirl with a sunset the color of blood and bruises.

Grantaire was crying now, helplessly, childishly, sobs jerking out. No…no…no His lips formed the pleading syllable over and over again. Hot droplets began to rain down on his upturned face. He flung his head back and screamed at the top of his lungs: "Oh God, no!"

With a wild cry, he leaped forward…and found himself on the floor of the ABC Café, pinning Enjolras to the floor with a knee on his chest. Water dripped down his dark curls and soaked the front of his vest and cravat; he was breathing heavily. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw an empty pitcher rolling about under the table.

"Enjo—" he managed to get out. Hands—gentle but firm—were pulling him back, patting his shoulders, shaking him fully awake. He realized he was clutching Enjolras's shirt collar and released him with a jerk. He recognized Joly's voice…Courfeyac's…Jehan's…all of them…and closed his eyes in sudden, overwhelming relief.

"Drunkard," Enjolras said with contempt and some pity as he slowly got to his feet, supported by Courfeyac on one side and Combreferre on the other. He brushed himself off and looked down at Grantaire, who had slumped back into the other boys' arms. Shaking his head slowly, he adjusted his cravat and jerked his head towards the staircase. "Let him sleep off the liquor in the back room."

"Let me sleep here," Grantaire mumbled, an arm around Jehan's shoulders as the younger man helped him get to his feet. Enjolras snorted and walked over to the table in the corner, strewn with crumpled papers, pens, and candle stubs.

"Here? Grantaire, this is a place for study—not for absinthe soaked drunkards." Grantaire flinched at the gaze that Enjolras leveled on him but repeated himself gently.

"Let me sleep…here…"

"Ah, leave him be, Enjolras," Jehan said, keeping his grip on Grantaire's arm firm. "Surely it can't hurt." Enjolras looked sharply at Combeferre who was standing opposite him; Combeferre shrugged and sat back down at the table, twisting around so he could regard Grantaire and Jehan.

"Very well," Enjolras finally sighed. "Let the drunkard sit with us if it pleases him, but do not disturb us, Grantaire! Or else you'll be bundled out of the room and into the hall."

"Why, thank you," Grantaire said mockingly, pulling free of Jehan and sweeping a low bow. When he dropped onto the bench beside Enjolras, he didn't fail to notice Enjolras's full lips pressing together in annoyance. But he pretended he hadn't seen that look, folded his arms on the table, and rested his head on them.

Terms like "rights of the people", "rights of man", "the social contract", "democracy", "humanity", and "progress" flew over Grantaire's bowed head. Joly, smelling of ointments and unguents as usual, slid onto the bench next to him. The last remnants of his nightmare began to drift away from Grantaire, and as his eyes slowly closed, he smiled softly into his sleeve.

Enjolras, in the middle of clarifying a point of politics to Combeferre, happened to glance down at Grantaire just as he smiled. Something in his piercing gaze softened for an moment and he unconsciously lowered his voice when he resumed his discussion, so as not to wake the sleeper.


End file.
